


Catharsis

by Chrissy24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (attempted) suicide by con, Anger, Angst, Blood, Bloodplay, Depression, Dub-con at best, Fist Fights, Hatred, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, I think that's the worst of them, Injury, Knifeplay, M/M, Object Insertion, Psychological Trauma, Unresolved Sexual Tension, attempted suicide, let me know if I missed anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrissy24601/pseuds/Chrissy24601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“If a man fails to do his duty, it is just that he resigns!” Javert grabbed Valjean by the collar, hoisting him upright until their faces were barely inches apart. “Now, if a man fails before God, it is equally just that he resigns, is it not? Is it not?!”</em><br/><em>Valjean looked at him. “Is that what you think you were doing? Resigning before God? If so, God does not</em> want<em> your resignation."</em></p><p>For an LMKM prompt requesting "a fight in which they beat each other bloody, maybe make cathartic emotional confessions, and then have angry,impassioned, life-affirming, wall-banging sex. Because neither of them is great at verbalizing their emotional issues, they'd rather just slam their fists and cudgels and cocks into each other to fix all the angst." </p><p>That is exactly what happens here, no holds barred. Consider yourself warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> For those who skipped the tags: **this fic contains rape, attempted suicide and a host of other 'adult issues'!**
> 
> Proceed at your own risk ;P

At barely eight in the morning, the July sun already stirred up the fire of the heatwave that’d had Paris in its grip for days. By noon it would be too hot to go outside and even in the sheltered shade of the house, wearing anything more than a shirt and linen trousers was unwise. Still Javert had stubbornly put on his waistcoat and leather boots.

“Not the cravat,” Valjean said as he walked into the bedroom with a bowl of water in his hands. “You need a shave first.”

With visible reluctance, Javert sat himself down on the wooden chair by the dresser, cravat in his lap. He tilted his chin up and allowed Valjean to tuck a towel around his neck, but not without glaring at the older man. Not a glare of defiance, but one of intense hatred. Valjean ignored it, as he had for the past few weeks.

From the first day that Valjean had taken the man into his home, the inspector had insisted on having a daily shave. At the first request, Valjean had complied without further thought. That had been a mistake. Since then he had kept the razor behind lock and key, only taking it out when it was needed.

Today, shaving Javert was a struggle as always. The inspector worked his jaw at inopportune moments, refused to sit still as the razor grazed his neck and generally did not cooperate. The only reason Valjean put up with it was because he hoped that in the long run, keeping a clean body would help Javert clear his mind.

When he was done, Valjean locked away the razor before cleaning up the rest of the shaving equipment. Javert had ripped the towel from his neck and tossed it aside. Valjean frowned, but did not comment on it. Not until Javert proceeded to tie his cravat without the aid of a mirror.

“It is going to be too hot for formal wear, inspector.”

“Do not call me that!” Javert snapped back.

Valjean only raised a brow. “Ah. You are talking today?” It earned him a snarl, but nothing more. He sighed. Maybe it was the oppressive heat; maybe it was the fact that Javert had yet again done his best to make Valjean’s razor nick his throat where it counted; or maybe it was the prospect of spending another day in Javert’s presence without getting a single response from the man; but whatever the reason was, Valjean felt his saintly patience running out.

“You know, this silence of yours is getting awfully tiresome,” he growled. “How do you expect to ever get back on your feet again, acting like this?”

“I will not ‘get back on my feet’,” Javert bit sarcastically. “I thought that much would be clear to you by now!”

“I had hoped—“

“Hope is useless, Valjean! I had hoped to rid myself of you, and look where that got me!”

Valjean bit his tongue when Javert stomped out of the room and down the stairs. He knew he should be happy at the outburst. Not only was it more than Javert had said all week, but it was also the first clue he had given as to why Valjean had found him on the parapet of the Pont-au-Change that night. It made him sick to his stomach to think it might be the truth. 

After tossing out the water, clearing the dresser and double-checking that the razor was secured properly, he followed Javert out. On his way to the stairs he passed Cosette’s room. Her door was ajar, telling him she had gone out before he and Javert had woken. She had said that she wished to stay at Marius’ side until the young man was out of danger, but Valjean knew that the sullen behaviour of their involuntary housemate played a part in her numerous absences, too.

Enough. This had to stop.

Determined to make the most of Javert’s unexpected spell of eloquence, Valjean hurried down. His bare feet made no sound at all on the tiles as he crossed the vestibule to the parlour. He had tried to pry Javert open with kindness and patience, but evidently that was not enough. Perhaps it was time to resort to less subtle methods.

“Javert, I really—NO!”

He sprinted forward and grabbed Javert’s wrist with such force that the man’s fingers slackened. The penknife they’d been holding clattered onto the floor. Not taking any chances, Valjean kicked it under the nearest closet and cursed himself for not reminding Cosette not to leave such objects lying about.

“Why did you do that?” he asked without releasing his vice-like grip. It must hurt, because Javert’s lips twitched several times as he bared his teeth.

“Let go of me,” he growled.

“No! Not until you answer me.”

Javert grimaced, still struggling against Valjean’s hold. “You know why…” His eyes snapped up, suddenly ablaze. “You know I want to die! Why won’t you stop your infernal interference and just let me!”

“Because suicide is a sin,” he grabbed Javert’s other arm to stop the man hurting himself trying in vain to twist free, “and because I do not believe that death is truly what you want.”

Instantly, Javert froze. Eyes wide and nostrils flaring, he glared at Valjean. “What I want?” he mimicked, voice rising. “What I want? You have _no idea_ what I want! You barge into people’s lives, presuming you know what they must want! But you are wrong; I do not want to be saved! Not after the injustice you imposed on me!”

What? “Javert, I saved you life. Twice! How in God’s name could that be unjust?”

He waited for a reply, but Javert looked away. In his grasp, he felt the man beginning to shake. Javert’s breath came in short, sharp bursts and for a moment Valjean feared he was having a seizure of sorts. Only when a cold sound pitched in did he realise that Javert was… laughing? If that was what it was, Javert’s chuckle came out jagged, like shards of ice raking over his skin.

 “You speak of God. You speak of justice.” Javert’s voice was low, menacing. “You speak as if these things are related…”

“They are,” said Valjean. “God is nothing if not just.”

He meant it. He meant it so wholeheartedly that he didn’t notice the movement until it was too late.

Without warning, Javert’s still-bound hands grabbed Valjean’s shirt and pulled him down to meet the leg coming up. Valjean gasped in shock and pain as the man’s knee ploughed into the hollow below his sternum. Instinctively, he let go to wrap his arms over his stomach, but not before he got a well-aimed kick in the side. He staggered backwards, putting as much distance as possible between Javert and himself.

“How _dare_ you speak to me of justice!” Javert bellowed, advancing on Valjean, who backed up further while trying to catch his breath. “If a man fails to do his duty, it is just that he resigns!” He grabbed Valjean by the collar, hoisting him upright until their faces were barely inches apart. “Now, if a man fails before God,” he breathed hard, “it is equally just that he resigns, is it not? _Is it not?!_ ”

Valjean looked at him. “Is that what you think you were doing? Resigning before God?” He couldn’t help but scoff a laugh. “If so, God does not want your resignation. Your love and devotion to do good in His name, yes, but He does not want His children to give up the life He gave them.”

This time he saw the arm swing, but he could not dodge the blow. His head whipped to the side as Javert’s fist connected with his face. Bolts of pain shot over his cheekbone and for a heartbeat, his vision went black. Under any other circumstance he would have fought back, but now he didn’t. Javert needed to get whatever was eating him out of his system. If physicality could accomplish what words could not, Valjean would bear it.

“Your precious God can have the life He gave me and keep it!” Javert barked, shoving Valjean against the wall. “What life did He give me? I was born to be scum! A vagabond, a criminal!”

“But you are not,” Valjean wheezed.

“ _Yes, I am!_ ” Javert rammed the heel of one hand against the underside of Valjean’s jaw. Valjean felt his teeth rattle, clipping the tip of his tongue while his head thudded against the wall. “ _I am!_ ” Javert shrieked in his face, digging his fingers in Valjean’s cheeks. “I did what I could to become a good man! I protected society without ever asking _anything_ in return! I was loyal, righteous, _irreproachable_! I was everything that the monsters who begot me were not! And then _you_ destroyed me!”

Now Valjean forcefully pried Javert’s fingers off his face. “I meant to save you, not destroy you!” he retorted. He tasted blood in his mouth, but swallowed it. They stood so close that their bodies almost touched. He would not mind if they did, but not like this. Not while Javert was seething with anger and what could only be self-hatred. Valjean raised his eyes in pity.

“You are a good man, Javert, and you deserve to live. That is why I saved you. I do not understand how that could have hurt you so.”

Javert gritted his teeth, Valjean’s collar in one hand and snorting like a bull about to charge. “You ignorant fool. You presumptuous, arrogant bastard.” He was not shouting now, but he spat the words with such contempt that Valjean’s skin crawled. “I had but one thing _–_ one thing! _–_ to keep me from falling back to the gutter your God tossed me into. And with one careless flick of that bloody knife, you killed that!”

“Javert, what are you—?”

Javert bent closer, his hot breath blowing in Valjean’s ear. “The law, Valjean. You crushed it underfoot whenever you went. It never meant anything to you, but to me, it was my life. As long as I was true to the law, maybe one day I could become a good man.”

“But you a—aah!” Valjean cringed when Javert’s free hand dealt a brief, sharp blow to his throat to shut him up.

“Now the law is dead to me, killed by your mercy!” A second punch landed in Valjean’s abdomen. “You murdered me, Valjean! And you didn’t even have the decency to _let me die_!”

The last words got lost in a howl of rage. Valjean doubled over at the third impact of Javert’s fist. When Javert withdrew for another blow, Valjean blocked the incoming swing with one arm while turning to put his shoulder between them to protect himself. Instead a burst of pain exploded below his neck as an elbow came down between his shoulder blades with enough force to knock the wind out of him. But he had taken worse beatings.

Hunched over to cover the softer parts of his body, Valjean rammed his shoulder into Javert’s chest, knocking the man backwards. It gave him only a moment’s reprieve, because immediately Javert charged at him again. Valjean didn’t back down. He dove to evade another punch and then grasped Javert’s waist with both arms, pulling him into a bear hug.

“Javert! That’s enough!” he bellowed as painful blows rained down on his back. “Enough, I said!”

Javert didn’t heed him. The man could not wrest himself loose from crushing hold, but while Valjean was stronger by far, Javert had over thirty years of experience fighting dirty with hardened criminals. He knew exactly how to make his blows count.

A doubled-fisted whack to the back of his skull snapped Valjean’s head down, knocking his nose into his own arm. A second and a third of such blows in quick succession and Valjean had no choice but to let go. But before he could find his balance, Javert already had him by the lapels of his collar and pushed him back towards the wall. Valjean tensed to catch the impact, but none came as they missed the wall and stumbled headlong through the open door and into the kitchen instead.

Sheer momentum carried them crashing into the kitchen counter. Valjean felt its hard edge grating over his spine as Javert’s weight all but fell into him. He gripped the edge on either side of him to steady himself when Javert leaned in, hands still on Valjean’s collar and one long leg pushing between Valjean’s.

Being pinned to the counter by Javert’s hips was distracting. The situation was too volatile to think of such things, but Javert’s thigh grinding into his groin threatened to overrule all common sense.

“You will pay for what you have done,” Javert growled in his face. “You made a fool of me too often, Jean Valjean. You embarrassed me in front of my men by releasing that whore when she was lawfully arrested.” He reached for the drawer to his right. “Then when I apologised while you knew I was right all along.” The utensils in the drawer jingled when he pulled it open. “You had the authorities– No, you had _me_ believe that you had drowned in Toulon! God, I hated you then!”  

“Please…” _please let there be nothing sharp in there._ “Javert, I never—“

“ _Shut it!_ ”

The jingling stopped and in a flash, Javert’s arm jerked up and Valjean felt the point of knife on his throat. He leaned away, but the knife kept pressing into his skin. Before him, Javert grinned viciously. “You gave me the slip when I found you in Paris. I had you, but somehow – _somehow! –_ you got away! Was it the luck of the saints that saved you that night? Never mind, it does not matter anymore. No… I have you now.” He tilted the back of the knife up, eyes shining with malice. “You are _mine_ , Valjean.”

The tip of the knife pricked his skin as he swallowed. “I already surrendered to you weeks ago,” he said, raising his chin a fraction more. “What more do you want? Arrest me after all? Then do it!”

Javert’s grin became grotesque. “I cannot. Even if I were still a policeman, I could not. That is what your corruption did to me.”

“Corruption? How did I corrupt you? All I did was ask you to have mercy on those in need!”

“No, that is what you _said_ ,” Javert drawled. “What you did, however…”

Valjean gulped when the knife plunged down and out of sight. On instinct he braced for pain, first his own, then Javert’s. But what he wasn’t prepared for was the hand tugging at the suspenders holding up his trousers and the ‘snk’ of the blade cutting through both braces at once.

“The people of Montreuil called you a saint,” Javert sneered, now hitching the knife under the trousers’ fastenings, “but I know better. I know you for what you _really_ are.” Every snap of his knife was accompanied by the crisp sound of a button skipping over the tiled floor. When the last one bounced away, the worn linen sagged down Valjean’s hips, exposing the bare skin beneath.

Javert’s eyes flared wider, his expression alternating between disgust and fascination as he stared. Embarrassed, Valjean made to recover his decency, but the moment his hand came anywhere near his trousers, a flick of Javert’s wrist drew an angry red cut in the back of his hand.

“No,” the man growled, kicking Valjean hard in the ankle to force his feet further apart. The shock jarred Valjean’s loose trousers enough to slide down to his knees. Now only the long panels of his shirt provided a meagre measure of cover, but even that was lost when Javert pushed the panels aside with the blade.

“There is no place for you to hide,” Javert said in an oddly far away voice. “I know what you are, Valjean. I have seen you in Toulon; seen what you cons did to each other at night. I have heard you grunt, and groan…” His lips quivered ever so faintly. “Like dogs in heat.”

Valjean, too, trembled as the knife explored his lower regions. His fingers gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles were white. Fighting was not an option, not with his legs half-tangled and a sharp knife tracing his scrotum. If Javert decided to stab him now…

The cold blade stroked the side of his cock and he gasped. Having gone without another human’s touch for as long as he could remember, even the hard metal edge of a knife could make him stir. And it did.

“Did you like it?” Javert sounded curious and yet repulsed at the sight of Valjean's reaction. “Did you like sodomizing other diseased convicts like yourself? Or did you let them take you, like they would a woman?”

Valjean felt the heat rise to his face. “Desperate measures for desperate men, nothing more.”

“Desperate measures? Do not lie to me! I heard you! You loved it! You _wanted_ it!”

Javert ran the knife between Valjean’s legs, the blunt edge pressing against the sensitive flesh. Valjean whimpered but then bit his tongue. “It—it is true that I have done such things,” he admitted through clenched teeth. “I took little pleasure in it then, but if that is what you need now…”

_“I do not need such filth!”_

In the same instance, the length of the blade was gone from his groin and at his throat. On the edge of his vision, Valjean saw two dark eyes spitting fire.

“You brought me down, but you will not bring me so low!” Javert seethed. “The sight of you, your indecent strength; it may have corrupted my thoughts and my nights, but you will not corrupt my body!”

Valjean gulped against the blade, and then gulped again. _He has got the blunt edge forward!_   “If it was my intention to corrupt you body, I would have done so already. As it is… I only seek to _help_!”

At the last word, he knocked Javert’s hand away from his throat and grabbed his wrist with both hands. “Let go!” he barked.

Javert refused, and Valjean twisted sideways, forcing Javert to over bend backwards lest Valjean would break his arm. The tall man stumbled into the counter at an awkward angle, but still did not relinquish the blade.

“Let go! Now!” Valjean smashed the hand onto the stone counter top. Javert let out a cry and his finger flexed involuntarily. The knife skidded away over the counter. Valjean made a grope for it with one hand, but couldn’t reach far enough before Javert landed him a sharp left hook that momentarily blackened his sight. He blinked and saw Javert going for the knife again. Valjean rammed his elbow into the man’s shoulder and Javert missed the handle, but his fingers flicked the knife hard enough to send it spinning further down the counter, right between the dirty dishes of Cosette’s breakfast.

The blade was well out of Valjean’s reach now. With one hand he hoisted up his trousers while the other got hold of Javert’s waistcoat and held him back. To no avail: Javert landed one swift kick to Valjean’s shins and pulled free. The force propelled him forward and in his mad dash for the knife, he swiped two plates and a cup off the counter. The porcelain shattered on the kitchen floor, scattering white shards in every direction.

Valjean made to grab Javert by the waist once more, but then the knife was back in his face and he froze. Beyond its gleaming edge, Javert’s livid eyes glared at him, bright with more than the energy of their scuffle alone as he bared his teeth.

“On. Your. Knees!”

Valjean hesitated to obey, but in truth he had no other option. He went down on one knee, repositioning a fraction when a porcelain shard cut into his foot. One eye on the blade and the other on Javert’s face, he slowly lowered himself as ordered. The blade did not waver.

“Now, on the floor!” Javert spat. “Face down, limbs wide! You know the drill!”

He knew. Oh, how he knew…

Perhaps he should have seen this coming, he thought as he succumbed to the threat of the knife and assumed the standard position for prisoners waiting to be shackled. He should have foreseen this. Javert was a policeman and a prison guard. It was all the man had ever known. It made only sense that in his insecurity, he would fall back on that.

But realising this didn’t help or defuse this potentially disastrous situation. Javert was out of his mind but well aware of what he was doing: the most dangerous form of insanity. And there was very little that Valjean could do about that right now.

Dozens of shards that lay strewn over the kitchen floor pressed into his flesh as he lay himself down on his front and turned his face aside. For both their safety, he would play along. Only if the situation truly got out of hand would he fight back. But not yet. It wasn’t that dire just yet…

Following prison protocol, Javert stepped up to Valjean’s blind side. A second later, Valjean’s head was pinned down by a bony knee that weighed on his jaw. He grunted in pain, which only resulted in Javert putting more weight on that leg.

“Hands!” the man barked. Automatically, Valjean found his hands move to let his wrists meet on the small of his back. They were tied by something too smooth and soft to be rope, but strong enough to hold him. As Javert bound him, Valjean made sure to tense his arms as much as he could.

Javert noticed. “Do not think me ignorant of that trick,” he snarled, and flicked the flat of the blade hard against the inside of Valjean’s lower arms.

Valjean huffed at the sting, but did not ease the tension in his muscles. To his surprise, no further repercussions followed. With a bit of luck, tensing his wrists may have created just a fraction of extra space that would allow him to break free if he had to. Instinctively he tested the bonds. Well-tied, but their fabric was soft, loosely woven and had a measure of slack of itself. A valuable thing to keep in mind.

When Javert had finished, he did not get up. He only twisted in place. Valjean moaned in pain as the pressure on his jaw increased. “Wha wae yoo woiw?” he mumbled with some urgency.

Javert ignored him. Valjean tried again, but this time the flat of the blade stung his backside through the thin linen. He yelped and against his will, his hips bucked.

“Lie still!” Three quick, painful slaps landed on his arse and the back of both thighs. 

Cowed, Valjean complied. A heat rose to his skin, both where he had been struck and in his face. And elsewhere. His body was betraying him in the worst possible way. He could only hope that being face down like this would hide that involuntary reaction from Javert, at least until it wilted.

But it wouldn’t wilt, not while Javert pulled at his trousers and trailed the cold steel of the knife over the skin beneath. Valjean gasped. Only when he heard a tearing noise and felt the touch of linen disappear from his legs did he understand what Javert was doing.

As soon as the first leg of the trousers was cut open from waistband to ankle, Javert made short work of the second. “Still convinced it is too hot for drawers?” he sneered as he pulled away the scraps of linen to expose Valjean completely.

“Swah-ver!”

Javert scoffed a laugh and removed his knee from Valjean’s face. “What was that?”

Valjean worked his jaw for a moment, but raised his head off the floor when he felt a cold but thankfully blunt surface forced itself between his buttocks. “Javert, what in God’s name are you—!” A big hand slammed his head back onto the tiles while the tip of the knife pressed against his jugular vein.

“Stop resisting!” Javert hissed. “You like this so much? Then have it!” He put his knee between Valjean’s thighs and rammed it forward. Valjean felt the knife scratch the skin as his body jerked, but couldn’t suppress a whimpering moan as Javert only pushed harder.

“You damned con!” Javert barked. “Look at you now! Such a pious man of God’s mercy, but when push comes to _shove_ —“ his knee drove hard against Valjean’s arse “—you are no better than the rest of them!”

“Javert, please…!”

“What? This is not perverted enough for you?”

“No! Yes!” His face heated in shame and something else. “For Heaven’s sake, just let me go!”

At that, Javert leaned in closer, his claws grinding Valjean’s skull to the floor. “No,” he growled. “Not until I make you _feel_ how badly your depravity has corrupted me.”

Valjean held his breath and counted to ten. Javert was a good man, of that there could be no doubt. But neither could there be any doubt that if provoked now, Javert would not hesitate to cut Valjean’s throat. And then his own.

Damned if Javert needed this! It had to stop, the sooner the better. At the first opportunity, Valjean decided, he would break free and fight back.

But even in his insanity, Javert was nothing if not professional: while he repositioned himself to Valjean’s other side, he held the knife firmly in place, its tip pressing hard enough that Valjean could not move so much as an inch without risking instant death. Valjean was helpless to fight off the hand that pressed his head down, the knee digging into his kidneys or the boot that scraped over his bare ankle and forced his leg to the ground. He winced but kept still. Javert’s position wasn’t very stable, even for someone of his size and stature. Without the blade at his throat, Valjean could easily rock his body and make the man lose balance long enough to get away and worm his hands out of the bonds. But then the knife had to go first.

“Ugh!”

Valjean’s eyes flew wide open as shard of pain cut into his back and ankle, and the wind was squeezed out of him. Only in second instance did he realise that Javert had tilted his full body weight onto him. Valjean groaned. He was strong, but he was not thirty anymore and carrying such weight on such sensitive places hurt immensely. He strained to take the burden, but even when the knife at this neck pulled away, he couldn’t find the strength to throw Javert off of him.

It scared him to think that despite the danger, he didn’t really want to, either…

“I have you now,” Javert growled. “You will not go anywhere. No more miracle escapes this time, I swear. This time I have a different chain to bind you with. The same chain you used to bind me, you rotten old con!”

Valjean dared to breathe again now the knife had vanished from his neck, only to choke again when the same bluntness he had felt before forced its way against his opening. Pinned to the floor, he could not see, but his best guess was that it was the knife’s handle.

“Javert! Don’t!”

“You have no say in this!” The handle pressed on, making Valjean’s hips buck in reflex. “Does it hurt? No? It will. It will hurt. But you are used to that, aren’t you? You are used to being _filled_!”

Valjean bit down on a cry as the dry handle was forced into him. Red hot pain shot up through his back and his legs, his sphincter all but torn apart by the sudden intrusion. Jaws wired shut, he willed himself to take the pain and not beg for mercy that would never be granted.

The intrusion moved within him, grating against the fragile skin. Hands curled into fists behind his back, his dug his nails in his palms to keep from making a sound. Anything to distract him from the fact that he was being fucked with a knife… Dear God, he could only be grateful that Javert’d had the sense not to use the business end of the blade.

“Does this bring back memories, Valjean? It does for me…” Javert’s voice had dropped; his breathing harsh and loud enough to hear. His left thumb roughly strummed over Valjean’s face as he brusquely pushed the handle in deeper.

“Ah! Aah.”

Valjean immediately bit his lip. The first gasp had been for pain, but the second… Javert couldn’t know! If he discovered the stiff cock wedged between Valjean’s belly and the cold floor, he might flip that knife after all.

Jagged, uneven thrusts rocked his body. The handle slid in fraction by fraction, pain melting into a twisted kind of pleasure as he adjusted to its presence. For years, he had dreamt of Javert doing this to him, or something like it. But in those dreams, Javert had been sane…

Valjean shut his eyes. God, this had gone so horribly, horribly wrong.  

“Spare me your tears!” Javert snarled suddenly. “You like this! I know you do. You wretched bastards ignored the guards unless they carried a whip, but we were there all the time. All the time! We saw you. We heard. I heard…” He shoved the handle even deeper, twisting it in place. Valjean couldn’t suppress a needy whimper. “Yes, moan. Moan for me!” He pulled the handle back several inches before thrusting it back in as far as it would go.

Hoarse groans of lust and pain were all Valjean could utter. He would have moved if he could, leaning into the touch instead of away. It should not be like this, it should not feel this way, but it did. He felt Javert’s weight shift as the man leaned closer.

“Not so righteous now, are you? All this strength, all this power you could use against me…” His words were hurried, his breath hot against Valjean’s face. “But you never did, did you? So wise, so good, so saintly. Far too saintly to raise a hand against a _flic_!” Valjean felt an uncontrolled jolt coming from the man’s body, like a spasm. “Or didn’t you fight me because you wanted me to take you? Not arrest you, but have you? Is that it? _Is that it?!_ ”

The handle moved faster now. Valjean moaned into the hand that grabbed his face and turned so his clouded eyes could meet Javert’s. Another thrust. Another groan, which dissolved into an undetermined plea.

Javert was panting, too. “No… No, you knew that I wanted to devour you! You must have seen how your very presence derailed my thoughts…”  His voice trailed off and his eyes widened, showing his dilated pupils. Dark, endless.

Valjean collected his thoughts as best he could. “If you want to so badly, why hold back?” His jaw was released, only to get smacked into the floor by a powerful backhand strike.

“You disgraced the law!” Javert hollered. “You broke my life and my virtue! My body is the sole integrity I have left, and I will _not_ soil that with the likes of you!”

Valjean sucked the blood off his tongue and spit it out. “Still trying to be irreproachable, inspector?”

“ _Do not call me that!”_ Again his fist struck Valjean against the tiles. “When you took my honour, you took my right to bear that title!”

“I took n—nothing from you. People are more than their labels, Javert. They are human.” Urged on by the throbbing beneath his belly, he writhed against the handle. “And it is only human to want – ngh – to want this.”

He was not struck again. Instead the long fingers traced the lines on his face with exaggerated care.

“No,” Javert whispered. “No, you will not tempt me. I will not falter! I will not…”

 A shaking finger touched Valjean’s lips. With more need than sense on his mind, Valjean gently licked it.

At the touch, Javert’s face drained completely. Valjean instantly regretted his bold action, but it was already too late. An animalistic howl echoed through the kitchen and Javert jerked back as if burned.

In the same motion, the handle was ripped from Valjean’s body, causing him let out a cry of his own. He gasped as white hot bolts tore through his hips, momentarily overriding the muscles of his legs. Javert’s weight no longer pinned him down, so he turned around and pushed himself up with his elbow. He had no idea where Javert was, only that he couldn’t see the man. Or the knife.

Looking around frantically, he took in the situation as quickly as he could while pulling his wrists apart until he got enough slack in the bonds to lose them. Javert had backed off, out of reach and unarmed. Unarmed? The knife! Where was—Valjean’s gaze flitted down at the glint of metal by his feet. There it was, abandoned, the blade smeared with blood.

His heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be! What had entered him had been blunt and round, not the serrated edge of the blade. But that blood—? Dumbstruck, he glanced at Javert, who sat huddled against the cupboard in the corner.

“Dear God, Javert!”

Eyes like saucers, shaking, white as a sheet and bathing in cold sweat… Javert was in shock. He had his hands clutched to his chest, but Valjean could see the blood seeping between the long fingers. His heart sank as he realised that this meant that the blood on the blade was Javert’s. Of course it was. Using the knife’s handle to fuck him left precious little else to hold on to.

He tugged the panels of his shirts down for what little modesty that gave him and crawled closer to the man. “You are hurt,” he said softly. “Let me see the cuts.”

Javert gave no response, but his fist clenched so tight that his fingers turned as white as his face.

“Javert, please. Let me help you.”

“Help. _Help_?”

Valjean froze, both amazed and appalled by how much hatred lay in that one word.

“I do not _want_ your help!” Javert snarled. “I do not want you, or anything you offer me! You pretend you are a good man, but men like you cannot change! For all your piety you are still a thief!”

“Javert, I…”

“Spare me your explanations! What you just said - what you _did!_ – proves that you are still the con you always were. Still the same vermin, the same _perverted abomination_!”  

So far, Valjean had been willing to put up with a lot in the name of perseverance, but this was too much. Without a second thought, he leapt forward and struck Javert in the face with the back of his hand. The impact was hard enough to knock Javert sideways. As he swayed, Valjean circled his big arms around the man and pulled him to his chest.

“Men change, Javert,” he grunted and tightened his hold to combat Javert’s protests. It worked. Javert was quick and agile, but when it came down to pure strength, he had nothing on Valjean. “All men change,” Valjean whispered into Javert’s hair. “Even me. Even you.”

At last Javert ceased to struggle. He shuddered, his torso heaving in rapid bursts against Valjean’s. “Lies,” the man growled, tensing. “Everything you say is a lie. Everything you _are_ is a _lie_!”

Out of the blue he slammed his head backwards. Valjean moved just in time to avoid Javert’s skull breaking his nose, but his cheekbone caught the blow instead. In reflex, his arms loosened their hold. The weakness lasted less than a second, but it was all Javert needed to twist free and clamp his bloodied hand over Valjean’s mouth.

“You never fooled me,” he hissed, fighting off Valjean’s attempts to grab him again. “You are nothing but a dangerous, violent criminal.” He smirked, reaching behind Valjean’s back. “Oh, yes, I know what you are capable of doing, Valjean. In fact, I’m counting on it.” Something scraped over the tiles, giving off a metallic ring. “I will not let you hide behind your saintly aliases any longer—” Valjean felt the knife against his hand. “—24601!”

In that moment the world was silent but for their ragged breathing. Valjean tasted Javert’s blood on his lips. The warm liquid seeped into his mouth, like the number seeped through to his mind. He knew what Javert meant to invoke, what he was meant to do because of it. Just as he knew that he should not give in. But all the patience in the world was not enough to stomach either insult. Never mind both.

The upper cut took Javert completely by surprise. The force of the punch was enough to send him backwards, sprawled on the floor. Valjean launched himself onto him, pinning the man beneath his massive frame. Javert winced under the weight, but then locked his gaze on Valjean. A single drop of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and down his chin. He grinned.

“I was right,” he wheezed. “This is… your true face.”

Ignoring the words, Valjean sat up. He firmly straddled Javert’s hips, locking the man’s thighs with his feet. Then he grabbed both ends of Javert’s upturned shirt collar and ripped them with one sharp pull. The shirt came apart down to where the waistcoat kept it together, fabric tearing at each button that didn’t come off fast enough.

Javert stared at the ceiling, prone but for the occasional shiver. “Preach all you like, but you never were anything more than that number,” he said. He tilted his head back, offering his bare throat. “Well, what are you waiting for? Take that damn knife and do it!”

But Valjean only ran a heavy thumb over Javert’s windpipe. To either side of his hand, along the neck, he saw Javert’s quick pulse throb under the skin. His fingers caressed it, feeling its steady beat.

Javert grimaced. “You wish to strangle me instead? Why not? You are strong enough.”

The words stirred Valjean from his reverie. “I am,” he growled, “but you came to the wrong con, inspector. I’m a thief, not a murderer.”

Javert’s face stilled with genuine shock. Amused by the sight, Valjean leaned forward to hover only inches above the hollow of Javert’s throat. He smelled the man’s sweat; felt the rapid heartbeat echoed beneath his hips. It was unknown, delicious, and it made him hard.

“I won’t take your life,” he murmured, nipping with his teeth at the soft, freshly shaven skin, “but I will gladly take everything else.”

He felt Javert’s body stiffen. All over. Valjean smirked for a moment, then threw himself on Javert with the ferocity of a starving animal ready to devour its prey. With rough, savage kisses he raked every inch of Javert’s exposed skin. Sternum, clavicles, throat, jaw, and more. It was his, _his!_ At last.

“You have no idea… how long… I’ve wanted to do this,” Valjean grunted between kisses. “In Toulon, Montreuil…” He felt Javert tremble under his lips. “That night in Gorbeau House, you were so close I couldn’t bear it. Down the hall, all night. If not for Cosette, I would’ve had my way with you then.”

“Nhhno.”

“Yes. Ohhh, yes!” He gripped Javert’s jaw in one big hand. “For over thirty years, you have haunted and hunted me. And I let you.” He slowly extended his tongue, licking up the thin, bloody trail as he followed it from Javert’s chin to his quivering lips. “Not anymore,” he whispered. “Now, it is _my_ turn!”

He plunged down and plundered Javert’s mouth in a crude mockery of a kiss. Javert whimpered, twisting and writhing to break free from the relentless deadlock. Valjean relished the futile attempts and the body squirming under him. Madeleine or Fauchelevent might have taken pity, but Jean le Cric only saw a guard who got what was coming to him. If Javert wanted the Number, he would have it!

Valjean forced Javert’s protesting mouth open with his tongue. Tightly clenched teeth kept him out, but one jab between the ribs and Javert gasped, unable to prevent Valjean venturing deeper. He felt Javert’s tongue resisting him as he explored, tasted, savou—

“Aah!”

A sudden, sharp pain cut his tongue, drawing blood. In reflex, he pulled his head back and clamped a hand over his aching mouth. At the same moment something rammed his right temple, sending stars across his vision. A second punch followed immediately and broke his balance, while beneath him Javert bucked with such desperate force that Valjean fell over. Using the momentum of his fall, he reversed it and threw himself forward to a squat, but by then Javert was already on his feet. Stark white and eyes ablaze, the man burned with the mix of terror and fury that could move mountains. Like Valjean.

For one fraction of a second they gauged each other. Then Javert bolted. Valjean lunged out and pulled the man’s legs out from under him. A yelp and Javert fell flat on the floor. The impact was enough to leave him immobilized, but that didn’t last long. Before Valjean could get a better hold on him, Javert turned in place and made a grope for the bloodied knife that had ended up by the leg of the kitchen table. His attempt was cut short when Valjean pinned his reaching hand to the floor with a knee.

“You don’t need that,” Valjean growled as he picked up the knife and threw it in the far corner, where it disappeared with a clatter between a cabinet and the wall. “Did you really think you could escape?” He bared his teeth. “No, inspector, you aren’t going anywhere but where I let you.”

Javert’s breathing came in hard, ragged gasps; his heaving chest visible beneath the torn shirt, the faint shake in his limbs betraying fear, anger. Hatred.

“Kill me,” he panted, his voice cold as ice. “Kill me and do as you will with what is left. But I swear, while I live, you will _not_ possess me!”

“That’s no longer yours to decide, _inspector_ ,” Valjean spat as he grabbed a fistful of Javert’s thick, greying hair and pulled the man’s head level with his own. “Your forfeited your life, and your dignity with it.” He nipped at Javert’s earlobe, sucking and biting the soft flesh none too gently. Javert swallowed a pained moan.

“Don’t fight it,” Valjean cooed and flitted his tongue along the lobe between his teeth. “You have no pride anymore, no honour. You stripped yourself of everything when you gave up.” He shoved his free hand under Javert’s shirt and let his calloused fingers roam as he murmured. They found Javert’s nipple and pinched it. He felt Javert shudder and grinned. “You’re just like a con now. Everything worth fighting for, you already lost.”

He expected Javert to fight back anyway, especially when he removed his leg from Javert’s hand. But the man did nothing, not even when Valjean pulled him up by his hair until they both sat on their knees. He pressed himself against Javert’s back. His unrestricted prick rubbed eagerly against the fabric of Javert’s trousers as he circled both arms around the man, one hand still playing with the perked nipple while the other ventured further down to cup Javert’s crotch. He purred at the promising firmness he encountered there.

“See? You want this,” he whispered with a husky voice, kneading the stiffening cock. “You want this as much as I do.”

“I—nngh-nno, I—I do not!” Javert grated through his teeth.

Valjean chuckled darkly. “Now who is lying, inspector? Tell me, did you like it, hearing what went on in those cells at night? Did you watch?” He felt Javert tense. “Did you listen by the door, hand in your breeches? Or did you wait until you lay on your bunk, thinking of us filthy cons as you wanked yourself raw?”

Suddenly Javert’s growing tension exploded with a terrific scream, unleashing furious resistance. This time Valjean was prepared for it and he did not buckle when Javert rammed an elbow in his ribs. With his arms half-pinned to his side and legs folded, what few blows Javert managed to land lacked the force to hurt. Still, he did not stop trying.

“Give it up!” Valjean barked. “You are no match for me!” 

His words went unheeded. Javert continued to struggle with all his might, even if he only managed to lean forward by a few inches. The fingers of his undamaged hand clawed at the floor tiles for purchase but found only scattered shards of porcelain. Eventually he stopped, balled his fist and stilled.

“Regained your senses, inspector?” Valjean panted.

For a moment, Javert said nothing. Then he glanced over his shoulder, still panting. “All I need to regain… is my breath _._ ”

“Good,” Valjean murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Javert’s neck. “I like it better when you cooperate.”

“’Cooperate’?” Javert inhaled deeply. “ _Never!_ ”

The stab was short but forceful, and Valjean howled as a piercing pain tore through his left leg. Instinctively he made to hold his wounded limb, at which Javert wrestled free, leapt to his feet and stumbled to the other side of the kitchen table.

Valjean snarled in pain and indignation. Blood ran from a narrow but deep jab in his thigh. When he glared at Javert, he saw the man had something white, sharp and bloodied in his hand.

“You!” he growled, rising slowly. “You will pay for that!”

The pain in his leg hindered him long enough to give Javert a head start. By the time Valjean had gotten to his feet, Javert had already run out of the kitchen. Not that he could get far: the back door was through the kitchen and the front door was locked with a key Javert did not have. The best the man could do was make a stand. And stands could be broken.

Despite his two injured legs, one bearing old scars and one a fresh cut, Valjean darted out after Javert. The booted footsteps were easy to follow, if the bloody handprint on the parlour door hadn’t betrayed Javert already.

Valjean panted as he caught up with him in the vestibule. “Looking for a weapon? You disappoint me.”

Javert whipped around, in his hand a long, black cane that he had pulled from the hat stand. _His_ cane. He had dropped the porcelain shard and now held the heavy stick in front of him to ward Valjean off while his bleeding hand fumbled clumsily between the coats hanging from their pegs, searching blindly for something else.

“Stay back!” he warned when Valjean approached.

Valjean did not slow his advance. Behind Javert was the front door – locked. Only two other exits remained: the parlour and the stairs. Valjean positioned himself to block off both as he forced Javert into the corner by the door.

Experienced enough to sense a closing trap, Javert swung the cane through the space between them. “I said, stay back!” he yelled, tugging with bloodied fingers at the black belt that hung from the hat stand.

Valjean shrugged. “Your sword is not here,” he said simply.

A wave of a panic ghosted over Javert’s face. He let go of the belt and tightened his grip on the cane. By the way the man’s muscles rippled under the shirt sleeve, Valjean could tell that while the left might not be Javert’s dominant arm, neither was it weak. To feel those muscles against his skin, capturing him without arresting…

He licked his lips. Another step forward. Javert backed away now, turning as he did. Valjean responded with a step to the right and closed the gap on that side. He could taste Javert’s fear in the air and it sent pleasant shivers down his spine. If this was what hunting felt like, he understood why Javert loved it so.

But now the tables were turned. The hunter hunted. One more step forward. Javert took another step back, only to bump against the front door. Valjean smirked. “Got you now, inspector.”

The attack did not come as a surprise. Yet there was too little room for a proper swing and Valjean easily dodged the cane jutting at him. He grabbed it right below the leaden head and gave it a sharp tug. Javert did not release it, but yanked it back. The smooth wood slipped from Valjean’s sweaty palm and broke free, ready to be swung again. But in the increasingly small space between them, the options were limited. Instead of taking another swing, Javert pushed the length of the thick cane forward with both hands, aiming for Valjean’s throat.

Valjean swiftly raised his arm to block the assault. He winced at the pain of the impact, but held his ground. Javert leaned in to the cane, trying in vain to shove Valjean backwards. Valjean pushed back; pushed back some more, and then brusquely turned away.

Resistance suddenly gone, Javert stumbled forward. Valjean gripped the cane as the man staggered past him and pulled it from his hands as he fell. While Javert struggled to sit up, Valjean weighed the cane in his hand.

“Every time you caught me, I came willingly,” he said to Javert. Then he raised the cane, each end in one hand, and brought it down on his uninjured knee. A horrible noise filled the vestibule as the thick wood splintered. At last both ends came away and Valjean the two halves of the cane at Javert’s feet. “Just so you know.”

Sitting motionless on the floor, Javert stared wide-eyed at the remains of his weapon. His ashen face looked shocked, fearful, desperate, but not yet broken. And Jean le Cric wanted to see him broken. As broken as he himself had been in Toulon...

Acting off its own accord, Valjean’s hand reached for the hat stand, found the leather sword belt Javert had wanted, and lifted it from its peg. The belt was heavy, its buckle sturdy. Valjean let the leather slide over his hand, admiring it. Before him, Javert leaned away from him but did not get up.

“So, it is revenge you want after all,” Javert spat. “Well? What keeps you?!”

Valjean lashed out. The belt swished through the air. Instinctively Javert raised his arm to shield himself, only just in time to catch it coming down. The leather wrapped around his forearm, but then curled back. He glanced at Valjean, dark eyes bright with defiance.

“You will have to do better than that,” he growled.

“The first one is never more than a sting.” Valjean slung the belt over his shoulder. “But before the count of ten, you’ll beg me to drop the belt and claim you.”

“Over my dead body!”

The second lash came down with more force than the first, stinging his thigh. Immediately two more followed in quick succession to the same spot. Javert winced, but didn’t let out as much as a hiss.

“You know pain,” Valjean said darkly, twisting the belt in his hand. “You bore it all your life. Like me, you learned how to take it. Very well then…” He bend over and grabbed Javert’s collar, forcefully hauling him up and shoving him face-first into the nearest wall. With one movement, he pulled the waistcoat down over Javert’s shoulders. The garment tore at the back seam, revealing the cotton shirt underneath. Valjean gave it an extra rip for full exposure. “Every man has a breaking point, inspector. This is where we find out what yours is!”

He stepped back, arm already raised, and lashed out at Javert’s back with all his might. This time Javert cried out at the belt buckle that tore a gash in shirt and skin alike.

“Is that ‘better’?!” Valjean barked, bringing the belt down yet again. “Is this what you wanted? Pain? Humiliation?!” Two more lashes punctuated his words. “I bore nineteen year of that, Javert! _Nineteen years!_ ” The buckle ripped another bloody gash in Javert’s back. “You turned men into beasts!” _Whack!_ “Watched as they died beside me! Of disease and of the punishments _you_ dealt them!” _Whack!_

Javert had begun to tremble. His hands were pressed against the wall, his head down as his pride failed him. He whimpered in pain. “If you want revenge, then kill me!” he hissed.

“I’ve seen men beg for death in the bagne,” Valjean growled. “You never gave them that mercy. Now you dare to ask it for yourself?!”

Javert gasped sharply as the buckle raked across his back, shredding linen and skin. His hands balled to fists, but he did not move. 

“I do not what mercy… I want death!”

“Death _is_ a mercy!” Valjean screamed and whipped the belt over Javert’s back. “I had rather died in those chains than be released! I had no life, no chance! Not even my name is my own!” _Whack!_ “Nineteen years I spent in prison, but when I got out, your precious law sentenced me to a lifetime of loneliness! Always looking over my shoulder! Always afraid I would be unmasked! Always wondering whether you had found me again!” Through tears of rage and grief, he lashed out and watched two more gashes turn red with blood that seeped out and soaked the tattered shirt. “Only Cosette kept me human, but she didn’t understand! How could she? She was just a child!”

He paused to catch his breath with deep, heaving sobs. He forced himself to expect a counter attack, but Javert still had his bloodied back turned, fingers groping the wall to keep his balance.

“…I did you wrong,” Javert muttered hoarsely. “I hunted you and destroyed you. That was lawful… but it was also immoral.” He glanced over his shoulder. “End it. Free yourself of me. It is only just.”

“Just?” Valjean echoed. “No. No, if you did not want mercy when I gave it to you, you will not have it now. You live by the law, you say. The law knows no mercy, Javert. The law only knows _punishment_!” The buckle came down harder than it had before and Javert cried out.

“Damn you, Javert! For years – years! – I hoped you would look beyond those petty words and _see_ me! Not the con, but _me!_ ” _Whack!_ “But no, you had your head too far up your own arse to see what was right in front of you! And when at last I’d had enough of running, enough of the fear and the loneliness…” Tears streamed down his face. “All you had to do was arrest me, you bastard! Bring me to justice and see me to my death sentence! That’s all I wanted! And for twenty years that was all _you_ wanted!”

“And I was _wrong_ ,” Javert bit.

“Not that night! That night you were right! I gave myself to you because you were right!” An inarticulate scream tore from his throat. “Just that once I wanted you to do your duty! I _trusted_ you to do your duty! And _you let! Me! Go!_ ”

Three sharp blows landed on the bloody mess that was Javert’s back. The first two made the man falter; the last finished him. The cut in his hand left a bloody trail on the wall as he sank to the floor at the foot of the stairs.

Valjean knelt beside the miserable heap and clasped his strong fingers around Javert’s jaw. “Look at me,” he growled. “ _Look at me!_ ”

Slowly, reluctantly, dark but dulled eyes rose to meet him gaze. “You’ve won,” Javert muttered after a while. “You have defeated me... every single day since the barricade. Justice, truth, authority; it is all dead…” His voice trembled as badly as his body. With a sluggishly motion he made to wrench his head loose. When he failed, he didn’t try again. “Can you not see, Valjean? You already killed me, except I’m still breathing… If you will not finish what you started, then at least grand me a chance to _._ ”

Valjean laughed under his breath; the low, dangerous laugh of one who has been submersed in anger so far that he has passed beyond it.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to be a dead man walking?” he rasped. “The bagne killed my soul, Javert. It killed my soul without killing my body. But my body survived; reminded itself that it was still alive while it waited for my soul to return. That took time, but it did.” He brought his face closer; close enough to feel Javert’s breath on his skin. “Your soul may be dead now, but it will come back to you.” There was a sound of protest, but he squeezed Javert’s jaw harder until it stopped. “It will, you’ll see,” he whispered as he brushed his lips through a greying whisker. “And until then, I will remind your body what it’s like… to live!”

He pressed his mouth on Javert’s without reservation or remorse. The initial noises of complaint that resonated against his palate turned into sounds of agony as he forced Javert to arch back against the edges of the stairs’ first five steps. Frantic hands tried to push him away, but he leaned in with his full weight, leaving Javert prone with pain without ever releasing the man’s lips.

Hot, soft, moist, a hint of tobacco… So delicious. So intoxicating. Even the smell sweat and blood that mixed with the lingering scent of shaving cream when straight to his groin. Despite Javert’s muffled cries, Valjean drove his tongue deeper down the man’s throat as he straddled the inspector’s legs, pinning him where they sat. The feel of the man’s writhing hips beneath him almost made him gasp. Working Javert over with a belt had been exciting in other ways, but as Javert’s trousers rubbed against his bare scrotum, Valjean felt his still half-hard cock firm up rapidly.

“Look what you do to me,” he grunted into Javert’s hot mouth. He groped blindly until he found the still bleeding hand and guided it to his shaft. “Feel that?”

Javert jerked back. “No! I don’t want— I can’t—!” he cried in horror.

“You _will_ ,” Valjean growled. He snatched Javert’s unwilling fingers and forced them to wrap around him. Javert whimpered in disgust at the touch, but Valjean held him firmly in place, savouring the pulse of his flesh beating against Javert’s wet palm. He inhaled deeply, then stole another deep-mouthed kiss as he thrust once into their combined hands. “Yes, like that…” he drawled. “Like you are gripping that cane of yours.”

“No, you—God, no!”

Face twisted with utter loathing, Javert tried to yank his hand back, but Valjean wouldn’t let him. Rather than release his hold, he made Javert stroke him with long, languid movements. Choked words of resistance soon dissolved into silent, terrified sobs. Yet with each passing motion down his own cock, Valjean felt his knuckles graze over the growing prominence between Javert’s legs.

“For all your chaste righteousness, you are just a scared little _flic_ , aren’t you? Never’ve been touched, never touched another…” He jotted out one finger to run over Javert’s length with the next movement of his hand. Javert shivered, gasping ever so softly. “Your body doesn’t lie, inspector,” Valjean growled. “It doesn’t want chastity; it doesn’t want to be irreproachable; it wants _this!_ ” He smirked as he strummed Javert’s length with two fingers this time, revelling in how it rose to meet him. “Feel that, Javert? Do you feel how your body wants me?”

“N—no, please…”

“Too bad, because I intent to have it anyway!”

“ _N—!_ ”

Javert’s cry was cut short by Valjean’s hungry mouth chewing and sucking its way along the already bruised lips. Sweet of themselves, salt with blood; it was all Jean le Cric had hoped for, but not even close to what he wanted. What he wanted was hot and warm and so, so tight…

Hazy with a need that would not wait, he grabbed Javert by the throat. Not as a teasing reminder of his strength, but a threatening promise to do what he was capable of. Under his palm, he felt the racing heartbeat and the sobs that hitched in the man’s windpipe. Javert looked up at him, eyes and nose flaring in terror. Valjean leaned in closer.

“Strip.”

Spoken in a deep, husky growl, the word was less a command than a fact. Javert shuddered in response, his hand twitching once around Valjean’s cock. He closed his eyes, screwed them shut as tight as he could. Then, slowly and with visible revulsion, his left hand rose to search along the waistband of his trousers. He flipped loose the buttons of his braces, but when he found the top button of his fly, he froze.

Valjean bared his teeth and squeezed Javert’s throat a little harder. “Do it! Now! Before I do it myself!”

Javert bit his lip. He bit until blood stained it red, but at last he obeyed. Or tried to: his shaking fingers couldn’t grasp the buttons of his trousers, let alone undo them. Eventually he managed to get the top one undone, but before he could attempt to tackle the next, Jean le Cric had lost his patience.

“You think you can play games?!” Valjean roared. He got hold of Javert’s fly with both hands and ripped it apart as he had done to the man’s shirt and waistcoat. In that split second of freedom, Javert tried to twist away, but the next instant Valjean had recaptured the man’s throat, pushing him back against the stairs with so much force that he yelped.

“No more games, no more waiting,” Valjean grunted. He pulled loose the string that kept Javert’s drawers up and roughly shoved his hand down them. Much to his satisfaction, he noticed that the thin linen was already damp with sweat and precome. Javert’s engorged cock jolted as he brushed against it on his way further down. Valjean smirked. “So scared, but so eager all the same.”

Immobilised by Valjean’s weight on his legs and helpless to fight off the violation, Javert stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were wide with silent hysterics and his hands had balled to white-knuckled fists, but Valjean paid it no heed. All that Jean le Cric cared about as his questing fingers spread Javert’s cheeks, was that he would get his reward at last.

The taut muscle resisted when he pressed a finger against Javert’s opening, but that was easily overcome by pushing harder. He won, and Javert’s whole body jerked when Valjean slid his finger in all the way to the second joint. 

“So tight,” Valjean breathed with delight. “You have no idea how long I have wanted to do this.” He began to move his finger inside Javert, watching the man’s expression flit between want and loathing as he did. Jean le Cric had seen that expression before, in countless new convicts learning for the first time how to find relief where there was none to be had. Their repulsion never lasted long, and they had all learned to like it. Javert would, too.

He shifted his weight to the side, so it rested only on Javert’s left leg and he could push the man’s thighs apart to reach deeper between them. Then he slowly pulled his finger out, only to push two back in. Javert gasped a whimper and Valjean could feel him tense around his digits as he pushed them in all the way.

“Don’t fight it,” he grunted, leaning in to suck the blood from Javert’s lips with a harsh kiss. “You will be taking a lot more than this before I’m through with you.” He scissored his fingers as wide as he could for emphasis.

Javert inhaled sharply at being stretched like that. He arched back, grunting for pain when his torn skin grated over the steps, but otherwise silent as he simultaneously tried to writhe both against and away from Valjean’s fingers. When he made a desperate attempt to lean forward, the hand on his throat held him back. 

“Not so fast!” Valjean snapped. He curled his fingers inside Javert’s body one last time before retrieving his hand from the clammy drawers. Javert only winced at the sting of being released, but then let out a short cry as Valjean unceremoniously shoved him onto the floor. One leg still trapped under Valjean’s hips, Javert fell on his side. He tried to struggle up, but Valjean grabbed his skull and forced his face down on the tiles.

“You know the ‘drill’, too, don’t you inspector?” Valjean chuckled darkly as he placed his knee on Javert’s side, putting considerable weight on it.

Javert squirmed under the pressure. He bucked when Valjean began to pull the undone trousers and drawers down over his hips, but to no avail. Inch by inch, his skin and shame were exposed. Inch by inch, Javert stilled, until the only movement in his limbs was a now incessant tremor.

“Age has been kind to you,” Valjean rumbled, panting slightly. His calloused palm ran over Javert’s now bare thigh, roughly stroking and squeezing the pale flesh as it went. “Very kind… It will be a delight to show you—”

_“NO!”_

There is strength in sheer panic, and Javert found it. He pulled his head free of Valjean’s grip and shot upright, twisting his body to lose the knee as well. But Valjean’s fist was faster. He hit Javert square in the jaw and knocked the man back on the floor.

“I told you not to fight!” he barked, making use of Javert’s half unconscious state to pull the boots off his feet and remove the bunched up clothes entirely. As the last leg of the drawers came away, Javert rolled onto his back. He groaned, first in confusion and then in pain when the bloody gashes in his back touched the stone tiles. But before he could come to his senses, Valjean was on top of him once more.

“Stop resisting the inevitable!” He grabbed Javert’s face and pulled him in a haggard kiss. With his knee he forced the man to spread his legs, his own member rubbing against the bony pelvis. The fleeting touch sent lightning through his body, filling him with delectable promise of life and hope he hadn’t felt in so long. He wanted to have that feeling again; not soon, but now! _Now!_ But Javert wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Even so his blood was on fire. It cost him tremendous effort to not rut and ride Javert like a dog in heat, but slide himself a little down the trembling body instead. He left one hand on Javert’s throat as a warning, while the other found the man’s hole and pressed against it.

“Good...” he muttered, feeling the tight ring of muscle yield to him. Javert moaned a terse plea for mercy, but Valjean ignored it as he lost all awareness beyond the soft heat at his fingertips. “So sweet and warm. You are almost ready for me, aren’t you? Just a little… _more_.”

At that, he pushed in three fingers at once.

Javert threw his head back with a howl of shock. Valjean held him down firmly while the man’s hips bucked at the sudden penetration. Just a reflexive response, Valjean decided. Not a sign of true protest. Screams of true protest didn’t break so quickly, nor did they fall to a low moan the way Javert’s had. Encouraged, Valjean forcefully drove his fingers further and watched with glee as Javert groped madly for something to hold on to but otherwise made no attempt to get away.

“Yes, take it. There’s a good little _flic_ ,” Valjean purred, spreading his fingers as far as Javert’s body would allow. It earned him a sharp wince from the man, but that did not keep him from pushing in deeper still.

He felt a trickle of sweat run over his fingers. But when he looked down, he saw that the trickle ran red: in his rough entry, his calloused digits had torn the delicate skin of Javert’s opening. Glancing up again, he saw how the man tried to suppress the pain. And the threatening tears.

“So tough, even now,” he whispered. “I’ll give you a better reason to cry, inspector.”

His fingers explored the soft tissue that enveloped them. With little effort, they found a spot that felt slightly different, slightly smoother. He brushed it and Javert let out a helpless but wanton gasp. Valjean grinned with satisfaction and moved his hand again, in and out, making sure that every time his fingers rubbed that one spot. Under his touches, Javert whimpered, clawed, writhed and groaned louder and harder at each thrust. Moans became sobs of need and despair; his cock quivered.

Well aware of what that heralded, Valjean pulled out his hand and settled himself between Javert’s legs to mount him properly. He did not release Javert’s throat as he pumped his own shaft twice for good measure and positioned himself. He was neither careful nor slow about guiding himself in, desire drowning out the burn of friction as he pressed his cock through Javert’s defences. Experience had taught him that sweat and blood were no substitute for lubrication, but blind determination was. With a few firm pushes, he had sheathed all of himself inside Javert…

Javert, who as every bit as hot and tight as Jean le Cric and Madeleine and Fauchelevent had dreamed he would be.

Overcome, Valjean put his hands on either side of the man’s head, supporting himself on precariously shaking arms. Panting for air, he tried to collect himself and savour the victory, savour the moment. It was all he could do not to lose himself there and then.

Beneath him, Javert had stopped breathing the moment Valjean had entered him. He had gone pale but for the blush of exertion on his pained face, and hadn’t made a sound. Only when Valjean thrust his hips forward did Javert inhale sharply. He tensed around the intrusion, causing Valjean to draw a gasp of his own.

“Easy now,” Valjean panted. “I want to enjoy this a bit longer.”

Javert groaned and turned his head aside as Valjean began to move inside him. Long, slow thrusts rocked his body over the seams between the floor tiles. The edges agitating the sore wounds on his back, but when eventually the softest whine escaped his dry lips, it wasn’t for pain.

Valjean smirked when he noticed and picked up the pace.

The heat of their bodies mingled with the summer heat that invaded the house. Sweat beaded on the Javert’s brow and chest, gluing the torn shirt to his skin. The sight, exciting and inviting of itself, mirrored the sheen of perspiration that Valjean felt over his own body. His arms buckled and he lowered himself on his elbows, fitting his clammy, heaving torso to Javert’s.

Javert was still facing away, eyes closed but murmuring with each strong thrust. Valjean dipped his head to kiss, rake and bite the side of the man’s neck. Never slowing his movements, he cupped Javert’s jaw with one hand and ran his thumb over the chapped, bloodied lips. On instinct, Javert began to lick and suck at the rough thumb pad, bemoaning his loss when Valjean flicked it just out of his reach.

“Look at you,” Valjean huffed between thrusts in echo of Javert’s taunts, “getting fucked on a cold, hard floor, like a con in prison. But you want it, don’t you?”

Javert blinked, eyes hazy, until he realised what he was doing and froze, horrified. “No,” he grunted shakily between gritting teeth. “N—no, I don’t.”

“No? This says you do.” Valjean slid his hand between their bellies and wrapped his fingers around Javert’s cock. He felt every beat of the man’s racing heart pulse against his palm, every jitter the hard flesh made as he strummed it. “You feel that? The fire in your veins, the life screaming through your body?” He gripped Javert’s shaft harder, now panting himself. “Feel it? Now tell me… that you don’t want this.”

Javert’s face screwed up, but despite his efforts, tears leaked from his eyes. He still tried to fight it, but after two more thrusts and the moans they drew from him, he gave up. “…I _can’t_ want this,” he wept, “it’s wrong, it’s vile, it’s—it’s _depraved!_ ”

“It’s not,” Valjean grunted. “It means… you’re alive. And it’s only natural… to want to live.” It was getting harder to breathe, harder to think. He felt himself tiring, but hot flesh in his hand and the tight warmth around his cock made his blood boil and gave him the strength to pound still harder, still faster.

Javert writhed into him with every thrust, but the panic was evident in his eyes. “I can’t! I can’t do this!”

“You can!” Valjean panted with rapid, ragged breaths. “Just let…it... happen.”

Desperate hands grabbed at Valjean’s arms, shoulders, neck. Javert sobbed his denial with uneven gasps, but caught between their bodies, his cock twitched alarmingly. “I can’t—oh God! Valjeannngh.” In one last hopeless attempt to control himself, he dug his nails into Valjean’s skin. “No, I can’t, I won’t! I—I— _No!_ ”

The exclamation drew out to a scream. At the sound of it, Valjean buried himself deeper, only deeper. Javert clenched around him in sharp spasms;  hot semen spilled between his fingers, its scent flowing with that of their sweat and their blood. Tight, hot, sweet, _tight!_ So tight! Another convulsion around his cock and another; one more, two, and then the world exploded.

He saw nothing, heard nothing, but his hips moved by themselves as he spent himself completely. With each involuntary buck of his groin, the sun, moon and stars shot through his head. To live, to be alive as this; every breath anew, like springtime had come again.

At last his arm gave way and he collapsed heavily on Javert’s chest, weary but satisfied. Too long, it had been too long since he’d last done this. He had almost forgotten how it replenished his spirit and gave him fresh courage to face the world, or the blissful lethargy that lulled him to sleep afterwards. His eyes drooped as the high of his climax dissolved and his softening flesh slipped from Javert’s body.

_Javert!_

Despite the stifling heat that had saturated the vestibule, Valjean felt the man shiver against him. He scrambled up, pushing himself to his hands and knees, but only in second instance did he dare to open his eyes.

Only to notice that he could not open them all the way anymore. Before he hadn’t been aware of the swelling around his cheeks, now it was undeniable. Still he willingly ignored it. The aches in his own body didn’t matter. What mattered was the unspeakable pain he had inflicted on Javert instead.

_Dear God, what have I done?_

Javert looked like something from a nightmare. His ripped clothes clung to his arms and chest like bonds. His face was flushed and sweaty; his bruised throat covered in angry red suction marks left by Valjean’s lips and teeth. Still more purple bruises had begun to bloom along his jaw, each one a perfect match for one of Valjean’s fingers. His lower lips had split and had bled from two different cuts, leaving red smears around his mouth; smears not dissimilar to the blood stains on the chequered floor tiles. But the worst of all was the utter, hopeless defeat written all over Javert’s tear-streaked face.

“Javert, I…”

But the man refused to acknowledge him, or anything for that matter. Fresh tears welled up under his lashes and fingers caked with dried blood tugged down the tatters of his shirt to cover the evidence of his release – his _weakness_ , Valjean realised with shock. To Javert, their act had not brought relief or renewal, but a deep, unmentionable shame.

Valjean hung his head. How had this happened? How had he _let_ this happen? Yes, he had wanted Javert, he had dreamed about having him, but not like this. Not against the man’s will! All he had wanted to do this morning was to draw Javert from his depression, to give him hope. Yet what he had done instead was both inexcusable and unforgiveable. He should apologise, but what could he say? How could words ever undo the damage he had caused?

A bitter taste rose in his mouth.

“You were right after all. Men do not change. Not really,” Valjean breathed so softly it was barely a sound. “Try as I might, a part of me always will be that convict. And I… I am truly sorry for what he did to you.”

The words felt awkward, inadequate, and even fake despite his honest remorse. He felt a traitor for speaking them, but they had to be said, for what little good they might do. Or not: Valjean gauged Javert’s face for a reaction, but there was none. Dark eyes stared into the unseen distance, void of any sign of recognition that he had even heard Valjean’s whisper.

That was only to be expected, Valjean realised with growing dread. In Toulon, some convicts hadn’t talked for days after a lashing not nearly as severe as what he had done to Javert. And none of them had been beaten and raped to boot.

‘Raped’. Valjean gagged at the word, but that was the truth. Even if it seemed that Javert had taken a sliver of pleasure in what they had done, it was still a violation of such magnitude that Valjean didn’t dare to think of it. But he had committed it even so, and in doing so he had broken Javert’s body and shattered what was left of the man’s already addled mind.

At the sight of Javert’s absentminded stare and the unrelenting shivers that shook his battered body, Valjean broke as well. He sat down beside Javert and gently put his hands under the man’s shoulders. Javert did not fight the touch or the proximity when Valjean lifted him to onto his lap; he made no sound and did not even tense up. Somehow that emptiness was far more frightening than any response he might have given. It was almost as if Javert’s soul had truly fled away without his body being aware of it.

Biting back his own tears, Valjean cradled Javert to his chest. He was to blame for this, he knew, but what he had done was far worse than rape alone. He could see it now; but only now! If he had known, if he had seen before…

Saving Javert’s life once had been mercy, but saving him that second time, on the bridge, that had been self-indulgent. He had thought it the right thing to do without giving any consideration to what was right for Javert. It had never occurred to him that he hadn’t saved Javert at all. He saw that mistake only now, now that Jean le Cric had reminded Javert of what Fauchelevent had forgotten: that sometimes death is the only true mercy for a broken man.

“Oh God, Javert, I am so incredibly sorry,” he said, louder this time. “I forced myself on you, not just physically, but morally! I meant to _help_ you, but how was I to know that it was me who had destroyed you? Destroyed your beliefs and then forced you to live a half-life in the remains…” He grimaced at a sharp, new pain lancing his heart. “I meant to be merciful, but instead I was cruel and selfish. When you sought death, you did so for a reason. A good reason! And I should not have stopped you. I should have let you throw yourself in the Seine, like you wanted to. Like you _needed_ to. That would have been so much kinder...”

Silence. Javert’s eyes were still lost to some distant horizon. His chest expanded slowly, then sank with a long sigh that was threaded with soft groans. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. It took a moment before Valjean realised none was meant to; that Javert was lost in conversation with himself. He did not dare to encroach, although he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the subject of that internal deliberation.

That notion made Valjean suddenly very aware of his own appearance, which bore testimony to his crime. The dishevelled shirt was all he wore to cover the bruises and welts that their fight had left him with. The cut in his bare leg throbbed painfully and his face felt like it was twice its normal size. Beyond those visible aches, he also felt the now dimmed burn where the knife handle had entered him. Having the object breech his body had hurt terribly, but he had known how to adjust to the penetration. Javert did not, yet what Valjean had driven into him had been much bigger than a knife handle. To think how much that must have hurt...

Guilt twisted his insides like claws ripping flesh to shreds. All he wanted was to fall at Javert’s feet and surrender himself, but that, too, would be selfish. This wasn’t about how ashamed he was of what he had done. No, what truly mattered was whether Javert would ever recover from the devastation Valjean had heaped on him.

“I have done you such injustice, then as well as now. How can I ever beg your forgiveness?”

More silence. Not that he had expected an answer. He reached out to wipe a wayward lock of hair from Javert’s forehead. The man did not even shy away from the touch. Valjean blamed it, and the enduring emptiness, on shock.

But they could not stay here. It was not cold in the vestibule, but they were both exposed in more ways than one. Valjean calculated his chances of carrying Javert up the stairs, to the bedroom, but soon gave up on that thought: his left thigh was still bleeding, if little, and his right knee was stiff and swollen. Apparently Javert’s cane had been thicker and more difficult to break than it had seemed in the spur of the moment. He felt useless, but he had to try and salvage what he could. What if Cosette came home and found them like this?

That thought – that fear – alone gave him the strength to ignore the pain in his body and put his arm under Javert’s shoulders. When undetermined moisture seeped into his sleeve, he pretended it was only the sweat on Javert’s back. Then he put his other arm under the man’s knees, got a good hold, and lifted Javert off the floor.

Valjean bit down on the agony as his legs screamed against the strain and his arms protested that the tall, adult body they held was far heavier than the gangly youth he had carried through the sewers weeks ago. They were right to. The weight made him stagger backwards, against the wall. It was so easy to let go, but just as he had forced his back to bear the weight of a cart, he now forced his limbs to bear the weight of both Javert’s body and his own.

He glanced aside, up the stairs. The wall kept him upright. If he could lean against it while he climbed the steps, perhaps this venture wasn’t entirely impossible.

Even so, climbing up was not unlike the ordeal of Sisyphus. The stairs were a mountain, Javert’s dead weight a boulder. As he reached the last step, Valjean prayed that his hold on Javert’s unconscious body was firm enough not to draw the likeness too far and send them crashing down again.

At last, at long last, he had reached the first floor landing. He swayed and his hands and bare feet had gotten slippery with sweat. He was loosing grip both on Javert and on the floor. Nevertheless, keeping to the wall for support, he managed to get them to the master bedroom. No sooner had he reached the bed or his arms gave out and Javert fell from his grasp. Thankfully the man tumbled onto the soft quilt, where he then lay prone. Almost in the same instance Valjean felt his legs seize up and he collapsed on the rug beside the bed.

There Valjean sat for long while, gulping air to catch his breath. He was too old and too tired for this. Blood rushed through his ears and bright spots swam through his vision. His heart slowed only gradually, but eventually his hands and legs stopped shaking too badly. Once he felt he had regained some control over his body, he turned to sit on his knees as best as his injuries would allow. He looked at the half-naked figure on the bed, hoping that the passage of time had snapped Javert from his catatonic state. Although that would be nothing short of a mira—

From the quilt, two dark slits glared at him with a pained but clear gaze.

“Javert? Can you hear me?”

A derisive snort confirmed that he did, but was none too pleased about it. Valjean averted his gaze, well-aware that he had deserved such scorn.

“I—I will get some water to clean your wounds,” he muttered. But when he braced his hand on the bed to push himself up, long fingers wrapped themselves in his bloodstained sleeve.

“Why is everything upside down with you?”

The raw, hoarse voice sounded so alien that Valjean hardly recognised it as such, let alone hear the words. Stunned, he sank back to the floor. “What did you say?”

Javert’s frown deepened, narrowing his eyes further. “You are a benevolent convict,” he rasped. “A fraudulent benefactor. You are an impossible paradox that should not exist. For years I have tried to expose your saintly act as fraud…”

“And now you have succeeded.” Valjean pressed a fist to his brow. Dear God, if Bishop Myriel could see him now.

“No.”

He looked up, thoroughly puzzled. “What?”

But Javert didn’t answer. He stared for a long moment, weighing and measuring Valjean with careful scrutiny. When he spoke, he didn’t sound like himself:

“A convict would have killed me when he had the chance. Yet you will not even let me kill myself. But, if you are not a convict, then what _are_ you?”

Valjean gaped. Of all the things Javert might have thrown in his face, this he had not expected. At a loss for words that might be an answer, he gathered Javert’s bloodied hand and kissed the ragged cut in the palm. He meant it to be a gesture of penitence and humility, but Javert balled the hand to a fist, shutting him out.

“What are you, Valjean?” he demanded tersely. “Violation destroys and salvation heals, does it not?”

“I—“

“Then what are you, that you destroy a man when you save his life, but when you violate him you… you…?” His voice broke, muted. A lone tear fell from his eye and disappeared in the quilt.  

Valjean sighed guiltily. “I am sorry. On that bridge, you were so hurt and so set on hurting yourself even more… I could not stand by and let that happen. Yes, we stood on opposite sides, but I have always admired you strength of faith and your dedication to your beliefs. The only other person I have known to have such strength was the man who gave me back my soul after the bagne. To see you so shattered…  I wanted to help you heal, not make it worse!”

“You did not.”

“But I—!” He broke off abruptly and gazed at Javert. “I did not?”

Javert closed his eyes and his fingers curled more tightly in Valjean’s sleeve as he fought to straighten his thoughts.

“You did not,” he whispered. “You only drew out a fire that was already there, even if I had numbed myself to it. Chastity, abstinence; I thought these virtues would keep me on the right path. The things that went on in the bagne, I saw them as confirmation of that belief.” He curled up, wincing when his back bend. “But I was wrong…”

Seeing the pain and hoping to alleviate it, Valjean touched the man’s shoulder, careful of the nearby wounds. “Javert?” he prompted.

The knuckles of Javert’s hand went white. “How is it possible… that something so sordid can bring such light?”

The question, asked with such frail innocence, broke Valjean’s heart. It was a  true question, one begging an equally honest answer. It pained him that he had nothing better to offer than his limited insight. And limited it was. He shook his head.

“I do not know how or why. I only know that the light you felt was the only reason why we convicts sought each other out whenever life in the bagne got too hard and too dark to bear. Whenever we felt as desperate as you must have been these past few weeks.” He bent forward and gently kissed Javert’s hair. “I am forever sorry that I could not show you how bright that light can be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was too brutal with you. Far too brutal. And that belt…” He not-quite touched the lash that ended on Javert’s shoulder. “I would plead your forgiveness, but I believe that is too much to ask…”

A small, unexpected smile ghosted over Javert’s lips. “Only you, Jean Valjean, can commit a crime and turn it into an act of benevolence.” His fingers let go of the sleeve and wrapped around Valjean’s wrist instead. “Your fists, the belt… Such punishment was what I needed more than anything. As was the light you gave, no matter how brutal. All were just. There is nothing to forgive.”

Valjean felt rather than heard the tiny gasp of relief that escaped him. To be forgiven by this man, this strange, formidable man who had hunted him for so long, brought a light to his heart that he had despaired ever to receive in this life or the next. Like the Bishop’s blessing and Cosette’s love, Javert’s forgiveness was an immense gift that helped to heal the rifts in his soul left by poverty and imprisonment. He prayed that one day, he would be able to help Javert do the same.  

But first, he needed to tend to their battered and bleeding bodies before Cosette got home.

**Author's Note:**

> Valjean, honey, she *is* going to notice the bruises anyway. And the blood on the walls, and the floor...
> 
> I'm not even going to apologise for this. I feel I should, but I won't. It's too much for a self-fill for that.


End file.
